The Q

by Beth Brower

“When do we marry?” he asked her from habit. The invitation had been offered half a dozen times since Quincy was sixteen. “Once you start making as much money as I do.”

“Most people simply get or buy a paper,” Quincy said. “Why you feel it necessary to procure one is beyond me.”

If she could walk away, she would; her pride demanded at least that much from her. But Quincy knew that her heart beat with the rhythm of the presses in the back room, that her blood ran black with ink, and that her mind filled with reams of numbers and projections and plans. The Q was Quincy’s only vital organ, so she would play the game.

“You certainly are,” Arch said. And his words sounded like a dictionary entry that had more than one meaning.

Quincy squeezed her fruit a few more times and then pressed her thumb into the faint gold peel, feeling the rush and sting of lemon juice beneath her thumbnail. The stickiness wrapped around the crease at the base of her thumb, and Quincy ignored it as she pressed the softened lemon to her mouth. The strength of the sourness was overwhelming.

There is nothing better on a rainy September evening than a room full of books, don’t you think?

“I don’t care for poetry.” “You will. Not as much as I do, but you’ll learn to appreciate that I appreciate it. That’s part of maintaining connections with people. You give yourself a little to what they give themselves to a lot. And they do the same for you.”

He seemed tired, Quincy thought, like he was burning from the inside and couldn’t bank the fire. It was a feeling she understood well.

They came to a small, unattended park that set up on a hill. The view to the right spread Rhysdon out like the palm of a hand waiting for its fortune to be told.

“I’d like to think that I mean it, because I’m not capable of giving anything to anyone, despite what you think. And isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? People,” she waved her empty plate towards the boisterous crowd of her employees, “they require things from you, and you may even try to give to them. But what else can you count on? Their reactions, their thoughts, their safety, their attitudes, even their lives—none of these come back at you the way you think they will.” She dropped her hand and took a breath. “I can’t risk not knowing what’s coming back my way, Arch.”

“You think I’m handsome?” “You were,” Quincy retorted, “but now I think your nose is a little crooked.” “My nose is perfect.”

A thought crossed Quincy’s mind, and she panicked. “I’m not wearing a dress.” She didn’t even own one. “I’m not wearing one either,” Arch laughed.